


do you wanna get high?

by inyourfishnets



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Shotgunning, listen this isn’t good and i’m sorry, michael’s gay and jeremy is a lightweight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-11-28 11:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inyourfishnets/pseuds/inyourfishnets
Summary: michael loves jeremy near and far. michael loves jeremy when they’re smoking in his car. michael loves jeremy so much it’s bizarre.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i do not like writing prose but i had this idea

jeremy heere liked weed. he liked the way it burned his throat and the way it made him laugh. he liked the way thick white smoke clouded and danced around my car and the way the most mundane friday night became an adventure. 

i liked jeremy. stoned, sober, it didn’t matter. i have a problem distinguishing romantic and platonic love-- i have a problem not falling for anyone who smiles at me. jeremy’s different. he’s been there since the beginning, stuck with me through middle school and the Freshman Year From Hell and my lana del rey phase and the day i ironed a rainbow patch onto my favorite hoodie. and he’s adorable. i have dreams about the way his hair curls a little when he lets it get long, i have fantasies about his thighs and his fingers and his lips.

his lips, pressed up against a can of diet coke. he flicked his lighter and inhaled, and exhaled with a cacophony of hacks. 

“jesus,” he coughed some more. “fucking christ. that’s rough,” he wheezed, and handed his makeshift pipe over to me.

“jer, you know i have a pipe right?” 

“well yeah, but i wanted to make one! like a real teenage stoner! and google made it look much harder than it actually is.” adorable. fucking precious. a real teenage stoner, who smoked maybe once a week and only on the weekends and ‘michael if my dad finds out he’ll kill me!’

not that i couldn’t relate. when i started smoking i was the same way, but eventually the bong rips and hazy afternoons became an afterthought. 

i packed the soda can bowl tighter with the bottom of my lighter and took a hit. after a coughing fit of my own, i passed it back to jeremy. “we have to take glass blowing classes or something if you want to make your own pieces. no more aluminum cans ever again.” 

“buzzkill.” he took a hit. “will you teach me to french inhale?” 

“it’s kinda hard to explain.” 

“it’s sexy when you do it.”

what are you supposed to say when your best friend slash unrequited love calls you sexy? thanking him didn’t quite feel right. and complimenting him back didn’t seem quite right either. plus, he was obviously high, it was almost midnight, and he was not in the right state of mind to be handing out six words that would repeat in my mind again and again and again and 

“nah.”

nah. a lazy, almost apathetic dissent. if i could go back in time i’d take the stupid diet coke can pipe out of jeremy heere’s stupid beautiful hands and french inhale a thick cloud of white smoke and watch him look at me, look at my lips, look at the swirling smoke with that dreamy fucking look in his eyes.  
but i’m no marty mcfly. 

“yeah! michael you’re so cute.” 

“jeremy, you’re stoned.”

jeremy rolled his eyes and took another hit. instead of exhaling, he grabbed the back of my head and blew smoke into my mouth. it burned my throat and filled my lungs a little sweeter. 

we had shotgunned before, especially when jeremy first started smoking. it just made it easier on him. but normally it was me passing the smoke, and normally i was able to keep my cool.

he pulled back and looked at me, eyes droopy, smile dopey. fuck. fuck. fuck. 

i wanted to roll over the center console into his lap, i wanted to feel his fingers inside me, i wanted to take note of the song playing, i wanted to kiss him hard. and someday, maybe i will. i’ll smell the sticky smell of smoke and sweat and i’ll never forget the way he looked in the dark of my passenger seat. 

“i’m sleepy michael.” 

for now i’ll put my key in the ignition and plan out what i’m going to say to him when the haze wears off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> michael doesn't know how to express his emotions but boy does he have a lot of them! being a teenager is hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to continue this

jeremy heere was meticulous about his presence on social media. his instagram feed had a distinct aesthetic: clear and bright and almost retro, but he made it seem effortless. he had a tag system on tumblr, he never used facebook, but he had a profile set up so he could share information about whatever play or musical was coming up, his spotify playlists were organized by mood, genre, and date.

it was really amazing, at least in my opinion. every night before bed i would check jeremy’s tumblr, i’d send him a meme maybe, i’d bask in the glow of my iphone and i’d read into the lyrics of all the songs on his newest playlist. when i was included-- tagged in a photo, consulted for a caption, my heart would soar. youth is a beautiful thing.

                          _whereisnewjersey sent you a photo post!_

i couldn’t help but grin when the notification popped up.

“dude we’re in the same room.”

“i know, but that post is you,”

i opened it up. it was very me, some john mulaney reaction meme. “now is a good time to use the word kin, right?”

“yes.”

it was friday afternoons like this i cherished, laying around in my bedroom. i’d drape myself on my bean bag and he’d sit at my desk and spin and spin and spin in my office chair. and sometimes he’d catch me looking at him and he’d laugh a little bit and go back to trying to code a twitter bot even though it’s virtually impossible to do on mobile, and sometimes i’d get up and spin the chair for him so he could go faster.

now of course, there was that classic gay tension. i was pretty sure it was in my head, but sometimes we caught eyes and there was a glimmer of something, a love song would come on and we’d both freeze up a little bit, and of course there was that thing from the other night--

so he definitely called me cute. but i’m useless and gay and i was not taught how to communicate like a person. i’d planned out a whole thing in my head, it would be this great romantic moment, a little like this:

MICHAEL: jer, the other night you were stoned and you called me sexy. or cute. or both? i was kinda high too.

JEREMY: goddamnit michael, don’t you know that i’m desperately in love with you, and i have been since conception?

MICHAEL: oh jeremy, i feel the same way.

(MICHAEL and JEREMY proceed to make love on stage. maybe it’s a musical, and the chorus sings as the actors playing MICHAEL and JEREMY get under a sheet and move under it suggestively and on beat. maybe it’s a tap number. or maybe it’s a play, an experimental thing, and the actors are a little more graphic.)

i’ll leave the playwriting to jeremy though, even though i go hard to showtunes, he is much more of a theatre kid than i ever was. so our actual conversation was a little more like this:

“hey jeremy, the other night when we were high you called me cute?”

“yeah, sorry about that,”

“no it’s no big deal. i uh, i am cute. and so are you,”

he squinted a little bit. he wasn’t a dumbass, he could tell i wasn’t saying everything i wanted to. and there was so much i wanted to say, so much i still want to say.

“thanks, dude.”

and that was that. we got domino’s- half olive. cheesey bread. a two liter of diet coke. we watched a few episodes of queer eye. it was a perfectly nice time.

i drove him home, and before he got out of my car, his hand-- long fingers, freckled knuckles, a ring that turned his finger a little bit green, damn beautiful-- lingered on the handle.

“hey michael?”

“yeah?” my voice was higher pitched than normal. jesus christ.

“have a good night.”

“love you.” we were best friends. we said it all the time. he smiled and i watched him walk up his sidewalk and go inside. he went inside and i slammed my head against my steering wheel, cringing at the accidental honk.

i stuck my key in the ignition and drove away before jeremy could come back out and ask why i honked. on the drive home, i planned out what i would say to him when the tension inevitably became too much to bear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so self indulgent i’m depressed lmao also i’m sorry it’s short? i’m a poet i need to stop trying to write longform fic

jeremy heere was trying to kill me. with all the glances when someone in class said something stupid, with every laurence o’keefe song he sang at me, with the little pop sound his fingers made when he licked the cheeto dust off, he dug a knife deeper and deeper into my heart. 

i didn’t even give a fuck! 

i’m gonna be honest, i didn’t give much of a fuck about anything then. my therapist quit and started teaching pottery classes at the start of my senior year, and i was so close to college and moving away it seemed dumb to get close to a new therapist. 

so close to moving out, so close to college, so close to the future, but it all seemed unattainable.  
i could feel myself slipping into old habits— i watched the same film every night for two weeks, i started coming to class high, i’d cross the street without looking. 

i wasn’t going to kill myself but god, i wanted to die. and i didn’t know how to cope. 

and then there was jeremy, dealing with his own issues, somehow managing to make my life a little lighter. i didn’t open up to him then, but he wasn’t a dumbass. not totally, anyway. he knew that something was up— so he made me watch musicals. “the cure to life!” he called them— bat boy, 21 chump street, hedwig and the angry inch. i was able to escape for a little bit. 

no matter how much i love him, i will never give a self-proclaimed theatre kid the satisfaction of knowing that a musical he showed me changed me. but i left jeremy’s house with hedwig’s voice in my head.

when everything starts breaking down/you take the pieces off the ground/and show this wicked little town something beautiful and new

there were 57 days until graduation. i had to get through this. i slammed the gas and drove into the blue spring sky.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey some more sexual content at the beginning if that’s something you’re not comfortable with, i decided i really need to finish this story or else it’ll eat at me forever. i’m really pissed about bmc closing on broadway, it’s shows like it that get kids into musical theatre and the way anxiety is dealt with in the show hits home and has helped me— and countless others, i’m sure. the american theatre wing is on thin fucking ice. enjoy my bad fic

jeremy heere is the person i was thinking about when i orgasmed into my palm, onto my sheets. i made a mental note that i needed to buy new ones for my dorm— maybe pink? maybe grey?— as i forced myself to walk to the bathroom, my knees a little weak, to pee and brush my teeth and bask in the post-masturbation glow of bliss and shame. 

my hair a little damp and curled from sweat and fluffy from that new conditioner didn’t look too bad. it was almost a crime to go to bed and ruin it, but sleeping was better than analyzing the feeling of guilt (god he’s not an object michael it’s inherently wrong to jack off to him he’s your friend) and the feeling, the stronger feeling of longing (he’s your friend who is beautiful with his fingers and his lips and his freckles and the way he says your name and the way he shuffles through your cds so carefully but always just wants to listen to the original broadway cast recording of kinky boots when he gets in your car and the way he always wants to drink out of a blue mug and the way he looks at you through a cloud of smoke and) 

sleep. i needed sleep. 

and i’d wake up the next morning, pull on clothes, and drive to jeremy’s house. and he’d get in my car and shuffle through my cds—

“are you sure you don’t want to listen to elton john? or i just bought that alanis morissette cd?”

“no, michael, i think i’m in the mood for kinky boots.”

“you know, i think i have selections from cats the musical on cassette tape laying around somewhere,” 

“michael, you know i feel about andrew lloyd webber.” 

— of course i knew how he felt about andrew lloyd webber. we’d get to school, and he’d trudge off to math class, and i’d watch him walk away.  
and then i would walk off, too. 

and after school, after he had rehearsal, he’d walk out into the parking lot and hop in my car and start shuffling through my cds again— but this time, aggressively, hard plastic clinking against hard plastic. the kinky boots cast recording was still in my cd player from that morning. 

“if they don’t learn their fucking lines fast i’m going to—“ 

“summon dinonysus and have him drown them in wine?” 

jeremy sighed, “something like that.” he paused and put my cds back in their little box. he turned my car radio up ever so slightly, and i watched the song fill his heart and his lungs and i watched his spirit lift and the guitar and the drums kicked in and he started to sing— belt— and i did too. 

and i drove the long way back to his house so we could keep singing and singing and singing. 

i pulled up in front of his house, put the car in park but didn’t turn it off, and jeremy lingered. he clicked his seatbelt off and he lingered, with his hand on the door handle. 

“hey michael?” 

“yeah?”

i don’t know what his thought process was but maybe it didn’t matter. i didn’t get the pleasure of watching the gears turn behind his eyes because i don’t think he thought about it when he pressed his lips into mine, a little chapped and a little messy and a little warm and a little too fast. 

“thanks for the ride.” 

and he walked away. and i watched him go.


End file.
